You Asked for Perfect(55)

“Way to rub it in, sister.” I ruffle her curls. She looks better. More like my Rachel. She’s wearing her favorite tie-dye dress, and there’s Cheetos dust on her fingers.

After the Dizzy Daisies’ show, my friends asked me to stay and go with them to a Motel/Hotel show, some popular EDM band that got their start in Athens. But I knew my punishment would be worse the longer I put off coming home. As I was leaving, a woman with sleek hair started talking to Sook, and by the look on Sook’s face, I’m pretty sure the woman was an agent.

“Ariel Moshe,” Dad says from the living room. Uh-oh. Full Hebrew name. I’m in trouble.

I ask Rachel, “Can you wait upstairs?”

“Hmph,” she says. “Fine.”

Mom and Dad are sitting on the love seat together. Mom is kind of curled into Dad, one leg resting over his lap. I smile. I like how much they still like each other.

“Sit,” Mom says.

My smile fades.

I plop on the three-seat couch, feeling like a little kid, swallowed up by its size. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Maybe Sook about the agent? Now is not the time to check. I crack my neck left and then right and take a short breath. “Before you guys say anything,” I start. “I’m sorry.”

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “All right,” he says. “Explain first. Why did you go to Athens?”

“Sook forgot her drum tracks, and she needed them to play her show.”

“So you left after your Harvard interview and drove to Athens? Just like that? Without permission?” Mom asks.

“Actually, I left before my interview ended.”

Mom shakes her head. “I don’t understand, Ariel. You’ve been working so hard to get into Harvard, and now you’re risking it all? For what? Why?”

“Because Harvard isn’t the most important thing!” I snap, surprising us all. Mom slips her legs off Dad’s lap, and they both sit up straight.

“We know that,” Mom says. “But it seems to be all you focus on.”

“If it’s not important to you, why do you tell everyone I’m applying there? It’s all you guys talk about. Like it’s the only worthwhile thing about me.” My voice begins to shake. “If I don’t get in, that’s it. I’ll be Ariel, the one who didn’t get into Harvard. I’ll let everyone down. I’ll let you guys down. And I might not get in. I really might not, because I’m not perfect. They asked for perfect, and I’m not, and I don’t know what else I can—”

“Ariel,” Mom says, voice breaking.

I realize all three of us are crying.

Dad leans forward. “Ariel.” He pauses and meets my eyes. “Everything about you is worthwhile.” More tears fall, but with them, tension eases from my body. “People ask where you’re applying, so we tell them. That’s all. They’re interested in you, so we tell them.”

“Tatala, we don’t care where you go to school. Perfect is overrated.” Mom’s eyes shine. “Who would want perfect when they could have you?”

I swallow hard and run a hand through my hair. “But what do I do then?” I ask.

Mom walks over and sits next to me. She hugs me, her face damp against mine. “We’ll make a plan. Right, Saul?”

“Yes,” Dad says. “We’ll figure this out together. Ariel, you’ve done enough on your own. You’ve worked hard enough. We’ve got you now. Okay?”

“Okay.” I breathe out. “Okay.”





Seventeen


“Here.” I hand the slip of pink paper to Ms. Hayes.

It’s Monday morning, and I walked straight to her office as soon as I got to school. After a long talk with my parents this weekend, we agreed this was the best move, and now I want it done with. I still want to go to Harvard, even more so after my conversation with Hannah, but it’s not worth tearing myself apart over it.

Ms. Hayes looks up, surprised. “You’re dropping a course?”

“Spanish lit,” I say. “I need your signature.”

“Spanish lit…” She types into the computer. “But your grade. You have an A in Spanish.” She scans the screen. “You have an A in all your classes.”

“I know,” I say. Even my English grade is back up because Mrs. Rainer entered the extra credit. “But—” My throat is tight. I push through. “It’s too much. Spanish lit takes up hours of my time every week, and it’s only an elective. It’s putting a strain on my other classes, and on me. I need to drop it.”

“Ariel, I’m not trying to fight you. I just want to make sure you’re considering the situation. Harvard might see this, not to mention schools you apply to regular decision. Are you absolutely sure?”

“Ms. Hayes.” Her gaze snaps up to mine. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, genuinely. But this is my decision, and I’m making the right one. If Harvard sees the withdrawal, well, hopefully the rest of my transcript makes up for it. And if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. You can’t guarantee I’ll get in if I keep the class, can you?”

“No, but—”

“Then I’m dropping it,” I say.

“You might not be valedictorian.”